


Prove It

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany has this thing, whenever she makes eye contact with a dude she <i>knows </i>has made time with Santana, this painfully cute little jealous thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prove It

Title: Prove It  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: For safety's sake, through S3.  
Summary: Brittany has this thing, whenever she makes eye contact with a dude she _knows_ has made time with Santana, this painfully cute little jealous thing.

  
Brittany gets grumpy sometimes, about things that happened a long time ago, and maybe that would be annoying with someone else—but Santana kind of finds it adorable. Brittany has this thing, whenever she makes eye contact with a dude she _knows_ has made time with Santana, this painfully cute little jealous thing where she lifts her chin and narrows her eyes, her arm snaking around Santana’s waist and pulling her in tight. Her fingers skid around the edge of Santana’s waistband and hold firm, her hip knocking relentlessly against Santana’s with every step they take together, and it’s _hilarious_ , because the guys she’s glaring at never even realize it. The guys never wanted Santana for Santana—all they were ever in for was a quick fuck, the physical of it—so why should they care that Brittany has her now? Once the novelty of teenage lesbianism wore off, nobody in this school really gave a shit anymore, and now that summer has arrived—even less.

But Brittany still gets moody, especially when they’ve been hanging out with the New Directions kids too long, and Santana loves it a little bit. The way Brittany all but yanks her into her lap when they’re sitting around in Kurt’s basement, especially if Puck or Finn have inched too close. The less-than-delicate sweep of Brittany’s tongue as it traces the shell of her ear right in the middle of a conversation, as if Quinn hadn’t just asked her a question. The way her arms tighten enough to make breathing kind of an issue whenever Rachel makes the mistake of smiling in Santana’s direction.

It’s all ridiculous, and adorable, and honestly gets her a little bit hot, because jealous Brittany means sex with Brittany—means Brittany marking her territory with long strokes and gruff little growls—and nothing turns her on more than _that_.

Brittany’s in that sort of mood today, sitting behind her with an arm around her waist. They’re in Quinn’s sprawling backyard, Santana half-dozing in the sunlight as they watch their idiot friends skitter around a volleyball net, and even though every boy—or girl—who has ever crossed Santana’s mind is currently occupied with that dumb neon-yellow ball, Brittany is making that growling sound against her hair. It happens sometimes, when Brittany just gets _stuck_ on something—like the sight of Puck pinning Santana against a wall three years ago, or that glimpse of Rachel’s photo in her locker—and all that’s left is to let her ride it out.

Still, she can’t resist tipping her head back against Brittany’s shoulder, sweeping a thumb across the back of her hand reassuringly. “What’re you thinking about?”

Brittany says nothing, shifting her hips against the grass to push closer against Santana. She’s wearing jeans today, dark and slipping off her hips, and even though the temperature is threatening to spike above 80, Santana approves. Brittany in jeans and that paint-spattered old wife beater, left over from the time they redid Santana’s room sophomore year, is as heart-haltingly gorgeous as anything she’s ever seen.

And Brittany in _this_ mood—irritably envious of things that don’t matter anymore, digging the toes of her sneakers into the ground—is somehow even sexier, because it is so very unlike the Brittany she’s known her whole life. Normal Brittany is giggles and goofiness, sunshine and rolling her over on the soft grass for a tickle war; _this_ Brittany—slightly surly, edging her hips repeatedly into Santana’s backside like she’s forcing Santana’s attention to remain on her alone—is all _rebel without a cause_ , or whatever, and it gets her blood churning in a weird way. She likes to think every girl has her moment of wanting what’s _bad_ —badass, or bad boy, or whatever else along that track—and if Brittany wants to fulfill that age-old fantasy just by _being_ …

She rubs her head against Brittany’s shoulder, forehead sticking sweatily to her neck beneath a curtain of blonde hair, and grins.

“Sam’s looking fine today, huh?”

A dark sort of sound rumbles from the center of Brittany’s chest. Santana licks her lips and tilts her sunglasses down on her nose, letting her gaze rove across their former teammates.

“Boy’s abs are _sick_. Not as sick as Boy Chang’s, but _man_. You ever see abs like that?”

It’s hilarious, the way Brittany’s fingers fan out across her stomach possessively, when they both know Brittany is built ten times better than both of those idiots. Hilarious, and ridiculous, to ever be jealous of a _boy_ where Santana is concerned—and yet, here come her teeth, grazing the edge of Santana’s ear in irritation.

“Hell, even Finnocence is learning to work it,” Santana goes on, milking it for all the absurdity in the world—because, _please_ , the day she even glances at Finn for more than his measurements to put on a cattle-rearing website is ten shades past when Hell freezes over. Brittany’s hips jerk against her again, and for the first time, Santana notices something new about the sensation.

Her grin broadens.

“You ever miss it?” she asks conversationally, knowing the answer is a resounding _fuck no_ for both of them. Brittany rocks against her, insistent and annoyed— _pay attention to_ me—and continues her running trend of saying a whole lot of nothing. Santana drives on carelessly, toying with Brittany’s fingers. “I mean, boys are stupid, but you gotta admit—the sex wasn’t _all_ bad.”

Brittany bites down, hard, on the very top of her ear; Santana holds back a squeal and shuffles back on the grass.

“What? You never even _think_ about it?”

Silence—but Brittany’s hand is catching hold of her hip, and before Santana can catch her own balance, Brittany is jerking her clumsily around to land square in her lap. She collides with the awkwardly placed object within Brittany’s jeans and grunts.

“Happy to see me?” she flirts with a laugh, but Brittany’s already fisting a hand in her ponytail and dragging her down to meet a hungry, irritated mouth. She groans into the kiss, licking an eager path across Brittany’s lips as her knees part and rest on either side of Brittany’s hips, legs wrapped around her waist.

Brittany is hard beneath her in a way Santana’s not familiar with—not outside of the bedroom, anyway, where they keep any _extras_ locked away in a safe little drawer—and if she didn’t want sex before, it’s fucking _all_ she can think about now. With the way Brittany draws her near, hands pushing up under the back of her shirt, treating the whole world to a long glimpse of her brand-new tan, and the way Brittany latches onto her bottom lip and sucks vehemently, and the pulse of Brittany’s hips surging up to meet her.

Blindly, it occurs to her that they are still very much in public, very much in Quinn’s backyard in the middle of a New Directions barbeque, but Brittany’s nails are scraping along the ridges of her spine, and Brittany’s hot mouth is sloppily carressing her jawline, and Brittany fucking chose to _pack_ for the occasion, so—

“They’re staring,” she mumbles, even as she digs her fingers into Brittany’s mane of hair and yanks. “Mmph—“

“They’re not,” Brittany rasps against the side of her throat, licking a clean stripe to the base of her ear and rolling her pelvis again. “They’re playing.”

“Won’t be for long, if you keep doing what you’re— _unngh_ —“

She feels Brittany smirk into her skin as one maddeningly talented hand scoops around to roughly pinch her nipple beneath the flimsy shirt. Brittany, who has a long history of being startlingly _bad_ for someone so sweet, doesn’t usually come at her this vigorously in public. Brittany, who has done an awful lot of amazing things in the name of sex, has never quite breached the line of voyeurism. But today…

“Want you,” she growls, plastering their mouths together with such force, Santana nearly cries out into her. She’s all teeth today, teeth and gliding tongue, and thrashing hips, and it’s all Santana can do not to yank that paint-stained tank top over her head.

Except Brittany is very plainly _not_ wearing a bra, and enough members of their idiotically rag-tag little team have already gotten a glimpse of heaven, so—

“We need to move,” she gasps, each word muffled by a new bruising kiss. All but bouncing in Brittany’s lap, grinding her hips in tight circles, urging Brittany closer: it’s not the sort of thing she can keep up for long without losing her mind. “We need to find somewhere to go.”

“We have somewhere,” Brittany tells her thickly, voice deep and hoarse with arousal. She nips at Santana’s lip, chin, the underside of her jaw; Santana’s eyes roll back, palm planted at the base of Brittany’s neck.

“Quinn’s room,” she manages to force out, doing her best to ignore the stars flailing across her vision when Brittany’s hips spike up and that foreign hardness strikes right between her legs. “Quinn’s room. Right now.”

Quinn will be mad— _so_ fucking mad—when she inevitably finds out, but Santana can deal with that backlash later. She’ll buy her a fucking Breadstix gift card or some shit, it’ll all balance out, but for now—she needs this.

And, apparently, Brittany needs to teach her a lesson about messing with her head.

They’re up the stairs in a stumbling flurry of limbs, Brittany pausing just long enough to slam Santana back against the railing and rut against her once. Santana loses a shoe along the way, and carelessly kicks off the other before Brittany gets her up against the door, already shoving the shirt up her ribcage, the shorts off her hips.

“Impatient,” she laughs, and Brittany has the grace to look mildly sheepish for half a second before her mouth crashing down again, her fingers dragging the straps of Santana’s bra down her arms. She’s hot between Santana’s legs as she urges Santana to wrap around her hips with both thighs, and Santana decides that maybe this isn’t _quite_ the time for teasing banter.

Not with Brittany wrenching the fabric away from her skin, popping the front clasp open and letting the bra slither to the carpet. She groans as Brittany buries her face between her breasts, lapping at salty skin, biting at a stiff nipple until Santana’s back arches off of the door. The quiver of a muffled laugh runs through her, Brittany humming into the curve of her skin as her tongue flicks and darts with abandon, and she lets her head thunk against solid wood. Blue eyes raise briefly, nearly violet beneath black lashes.

“Careful.”

The ridiculousness of being told _careful_ by the girl who was entirely willing to fuck her in plain view of their friends isn’t lost on her, but Brittany is clearly too invested in what she’s doing to notice. Her tongue traces shapes around each nipple in turn, her fingernails scratching up and down Santana’s sides; her hips buck once, twice, and Santana whimpers.

She doesn’t need to say it; Brittany is already reeling back, shifting her balance and carrying Santana across the floor. She reaches the bed and lays Santana back with surprising gentleness, smirking when Santana stretches up on her elbows and just stares. Her hands wheel across the hem of her shirt, the material slinking up over her head, and pan back down across the front of her jeans. An achingly slow zipper, the pop of a button, and she pauses, letting Santana drink in the stretch of her skin as it meets denim, the teasing glimpse beneath her waistband as it sinks down the V of her hips.

“Off,” Santana mouths, and Brittany obediently shimmies loose from the pants, leaving only the harness holding the strap-on in place. She stands, bare and wearing that agonizing little smirk, fully aware of how sexy she is, and Santana thinks that this is why she loves her—because she _knows_ what she can do, and just _does_ it. Because only Brittany would glower at people who don’t realize they’ve pissed her off, and only Brittany would _care_ that someone else has been inside of what is hers, and only Brittany would suit up to prove to Santana—as if proving needs to be done—that she will never need anything else for the rest of her life.

Which is silly, in a way, because Santana has known that for a desperately long time. Taking in this vision now, of Brittany’s tight abs and pert breasts, the wave of her hair and the twist of her lips, she can’t imagine ever _looking_ at anyone else, much less taking them. Brittany is her own personal goddess with June freckles and a summer-night smile, and Brittany is everything she could want.

She crooks a finger, and Brittany comes to her, kneeling on the bed and waiting for Santana to run adoring fingers across her skin. She sits very still, eyes steady, letting Santana trace each line, each bend, the sweep of her muscles, the coil of biceps and abs and thighs. She sits, and sighs when Santana cups her breasts and squeezes, when Santana strokes a flat palm down the center of her belly, when Santana curls her fingers around the end of silicone and gives a teasing pump. Her eyes dark, her lips parted, she cants her hips in time with Santana’s hand as it moves along the shaft, and Santana knows she is doing everything in her power to really _feel_ it.

A hand between Brittany’s breasts, she pushes until Brittany is stretched out on the mattress, her hair haloed around her face. Pushes, and rises up, her hips on either side of Brittany’s abdomen, lowering as Brittany watches until her own flushed skin is pressed to tense muscle. She rocks in place, slick and wet, coating Brittany with herself, leaning back and thrusting her chest out, and Brittany’s eyes go wide. Brittany’s hands flex against the comforter—pale yellow, dotted with daisies—like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. Santana grins down at her, bites her lip, and thrusts her hips again and again, luxuriating in the hot twist of Brittany beneath her as she rides those stunningly perfect abs.

“So hot,” she husks, hand pressing to Brittany’s shoulder for balance. “So much hotter than them. You know that.”

Brittany nods slowly, gaze following Santana’s steady motion, and deliberately tightens her stomach. Santana groans, speeding up, nails biting into sun-kissed skin.

“Don’t want any of those guys,” she pants out, each syllable punctuated by a grind of her hips. “Don’t want any of them ever again. You know that. It’s you.”

She bows, lips to Brittany’s ear, and hisses, “It’s you I want to ride.”

Brittany’s moan arches through her, right to the center of her, and she comes apart to the sound of it, to the heat of Brittany’s palms as they fly to her waist and pin there. She comes apart, and before she’s even reached the end of it, her hips are lifting, and Brittany is easing her backward. Back, and down, sinking onto the shaft until the fullness of it all makes her teeth ache. Brittany grips her by the hipbones and guides her down, lets her make her own pace, lets her fill herself with a sharp hiss of pleasure, eyes the color of midnight.

She pushes back on Brittany’s shoulders and rolls her hips experimentally, mouth open. Everything is tight, and hot, and gorgeous, and when Brittany thrusts off the bed, she hears herself whimper in a high, unrecognizable register. To be this full, to have Brittany beneath her with _those_ eyes, and _that_ hungry expression, her tongue between her teeth and her hands pushing Santana’s hips back and forth—

She gives in, allowing Brittany the right to guide her body, and Brittany takes it without a second thought. Her palms are strong, her breath uneven as she pushes herself up; Santana’s legs shift with her until they’re wrapped firm around lithe hips again, until Brittany is deep and hot and owning her to completion. She tilts her head back and tries to breathe, hips bucking with each little thrust, and Brittany rains kisses along her skin—collarbone, throat, jawline, licking and sucking until Santana doesn’t know what to focus on anymore. There are too many feelings, colliding and jumping away again, too many sensations. Brittany’s tongue writing poetry on her clavicle, Brittany’s hands on the small of her back, Brittany within her, matching her, the sound of her voice sweeping through the room like an endless song.

Brittany etches the words into her skin, gruff and hot, murmuring, "You want me?"

" _Yes_ ," Santana pants. Brittany hikes her hips up, sinking in deeper than Santana ever thought she could go on the next thrust.

"Want me inside you. Me. Not Sam. Not Puck. _Me_."

She keens, nails scraping at Brittany's scalp until she gives an almost pained little whine in response. " _Yes_."

Brittany pulls back and looks her dead in the eye, halting for a second the motion of her pelvis. "Prove it."

Santana moans as Brittany relinquishes the grasp on her hips and leans back on her hands. She lifts herself up and slams back down again, feeling her body stretch to accomodate. Brittany's gaze engulfs her, fixed on the spot where their bodies meet: Santana flushed and glistening around the strap-on as she reaches a quick, fervent rhythm.

She rides Brittany’s lap, feeling each thrust zing through her bones, the clench of her own body around Brittany, and when Brittany bends to close her lips on a painfully-tight nipple, bringing it between her teeth, she tightens. Tightens, and gasps, “ _More_ —“

Brittany retreats, rolling them both over in one fluid motion, sliding out of Santana just enough to stave off the orgasm before it can erupt. She groans, arms wrapped around Brittany’s neck, eyes flickering open.

“ _Please_.”

Gazing at her, Brittany runs the pad of her thumb along Santana’s lip, catching in the tiny dimple at the edge of her mouth. Her kiss is warm and slow, lazy as the summer day is long; her tongue brushes the roof of Santana’s mouth, skims across her teeth, wraps her tongue and sucks languidly. Her breasts rub lightly, her stomach blanketing Santana’s, and, without breaking eye contact, she reaches down between them. Grasps hold of the strap-on, positions it, and pushes—slides—embraces—

Santana’s mouth drops open, her legs spreading wide, and Brittany thrusts within her, burying herself to the hilt. Her hips fit snug with Santana’s body, her forehead sinking against Santana’s shoulder, and for a second, Santana imagines she can see them in full: the long pale breadth of Brittany’s back as it tapers into strong hips, the slim catch of Santana’s legs around her, the blizzard of blonde hair and black, tangled together as they thrust as one. Brittany plunges deep and slides back out again, each push sending Santana’s hips chasing after her. Brittany rocks within her, hands skirting and fisting and clenching against her skin, and all Santana can do is close her eyes and whimper. Brittany is smooth as glass, hot and fierce and beautifully in love; she is grace, and she is want, and Santana can’t remember a thing except how it feels to be right here: the blankets soft beneath her, the sweat beading on Brittany’s skin, the hiss of breath she releases when Santana digs her nails into the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades. Santana can’t remember a thing except how it feels to have Brittany inside of her, filling her, her hips coming together with Santana’s like she’s never been anywhere else.

When she comes, it’s all at once; her body braces and contracts, squeezing Brittany as she cries out and bucks. Her world shrinks to contain only this, only the taste of Brittany’s kiss as she surges up to catch Santana’s mouth with her own, only the echo of Brittany’s ragged moans as they vibrate through her nervous system, only the push and pull of Brittany as she clutches at her, struggling to keep her right there inside of Santana.

“You feel—“ Brittany is breathless, her cheeks rosy, her lips ruby red. “You feel so—“

Santana whines as she slides out, hands pulling at the nape of Brittany’s neck. Muscles straining, thighs trembling, she whispers, “Come here,” and Brittany does. She stretches out and lets Santana rest her head beneath her chin, arm winding around Santana’s shoulders.

“You know I just like messing with you, right?” she says when words don’t feel as heavy in her mouth anymore. Brittany makes a low growling sound.

“You know I just like fucking you senseless, right?”

A sharp throb between her exhausted legs; touché.

“I only want you,” she goes on, smiling when Brittany kisses the top of her head. “Everybody else sucks.”

“Totally,” Brittany agrees. Santana sighs, drawing tiny squares around Brittany’s bellybutton.

“How long ‘til Quinn realizes we did it on her bed?”

Brittany snorts. “She already knows. I heard my phone go off like six times."

Santana nestles in closer, shaking with laughter. "Stupid bitch should learn to lock her door. _How_ long has she known us?"

There's silence for a moment, and then Brittany's voice comes again, softer this time. "You don't _really_ miss sex with boys, do you?"

"Of course not," Santana scoffs. She runs the tip of her finger between Brittany's breasts and lower, tracing the edges of the harness. "Raging lesbo, remember?"

"Yeah, but..." Brittany pauses. "Yeah."

Santana lifts her head, slinging one leg between Brittany's thighs and pushing up under the strap-on. She catches Brittany's gaze, hand pressed lightly to her cheek to keep her steady.

"I love you," she reminds gently, and brushes their lips together. "Only you. I couldn't want anybody else. Not ever."

"But." Brittany's eyes flutter shut, a frustrated breath leaving her lips. "College, and—“

" _You_ ," Santana repeats in her firmest voice. "Always."

Brittany touches her cheek and nods. "Okay."

"Say it," Santana commands.

"Always."

"Damn right." She grins, bopping the end of Brittany's nose. "And you're never gonna forget it—even if I have to fuck you in Fabray's bed allllll day long."

Brittany giggles into the next kiss, her hand already fumbling at the straps on the harness. "Lock the door. I'm holding you to that."

(Okay—so maybe she's going to have to invest in more than just _one_ apologetic Breadstix card.)  



End file.
